


To Love is Not to Possess

by orithea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Kink Meme, M/M, hand porn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once John starts touching Sherlock he can't seem to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Love is Not to Possess

**Author's Note:**

> For a very lovely porn prompt on the kink meme: [Sherlock being fucked slowly, gently but thoroughly. The important part is what the partner is doing with his hands on Sherlock](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=124349423).

John had always assumed that Sherlock didn’t care for touching. 

He’s never been respectful of personal space of course. But even with their faces within inches of each other there has been a distance, a reminder that things are done on Sherlock’s terms. Sherlock touches you; you don’t touch him. John can understand that—it’s not as though he doesn’t have his own issues with people laying their hands on him.

The first time that he breaks this unspoken rule is when Sherlock is sick. Of course the man can’t get just a little sniffle like a normal person. He’s never actually caught something before—not since John’s known him, at any rate, even with all the germs that follow him home to the flat from the surgery—so it stands to reason that any disease strong enough to fell Sherlock Holmes would be a miserable one indeed. The hypothesis is proven correct when Sherlock’s body aches (blamed on an on-case fight the day before) turn to flushed skin and a dry cough that he tries to hide from John. When his fever flares John actually begins to worry; Sherlock and any weakness of the mind do not mix, and he is ranting about the case while John tries to convince him that the murder can wait, that Lestrade can handle it, and that it’s Sherlock’s job to stay in his damned bed and get better. He expects a fight when he grabs Sherlock’s shoulders to steer him back to bed, but instead the tension drains out of him at John’s touch and he goes along without argument.

“Now,” John says sternly. “You’re going to stay in bed and wait this out before you make it any worse than it has to be.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees as he slides under the duvet. He immediately decides that’s too hot and kicks it back off, getting his long legs tangled in the sheets in the process. He does not try to get up, however.

Satisfied that he should be alright, John turns to leave. Sherlock’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist. “Stay?” he asks. The question is a courtesy; his grip makes it clear that it’s not a request.

“Fine,” John sighs. “Yeah, okay. But you don’t have a chair in here and I’m not standing hovering over you all day, so budge over.”

Sherlock lets go and slides to the other side of the bed, making a small rumble of delight at the coolness of the sheets seeping through his pajamas. John pulls the top sheet over Sherlock, then toes his shoes off to climb in next to him, back propped against the headboard. He’s not terribly surprised when Sherlock’s head finds its way to his lap and his long fingers curl into the hem of his jumper—everyone likes a bit of comfort when they’re sick, even self-professed sociopaths. He is surprised at himself when he begins to stroke his thumb along the side of his flatmate’s face, tracing the softened lines of his jaw and cheekbones, and occasionally rests his palm across his too-warm forehead. Sherlock seems to find it comforting and finally falls asleep.

\---

It seems easier, more natural, to touch him after that. It becomes something of an experiment for John, who is so used to having them done on him instead. It’s a test: how long before Sherlock will ask him to stop? After a chase when they’re both windblown and Sherlock is particularly disheveled, John might reach up and push one of those errant curls out of his eyes for him. Instead of grabbing his sleeve when he’s being dragged off somewhere, John will entwine their fingers to keep him pulled close. A hand placed on the small of Sherlock’s back, barely able to be felt through the thickness of his coat, when they’re standing over a body and John wants his attention. It’s normal for Sherlock to treat him like furniture when he’s bored, to invade his space and drape those long limbs over him, but John lets his fingers fall onto Sherlock now, absently stroke over expensive fabrics, where before they were resigned to gripping the arm of the sofa. Sherlock never complains. He seems surprised at first, then complacent, then—well John thinks he must actually enjoy it because he practically purrs, a deep rumble in his chest, when John strokes strong, sure hands over his skin while taping up his bruised ribs after an altercation doesn’t go completely to plan.

It is John’s hand at the back of Sherlock’s neck that breaks their unspoken truce.

“Listen. You’ve got to stop that and listen to me,” John tells him sharply. Sherlock is pacing across the sitting room floor in agitation, lost in his own head. Mycroft has just left, after informing them that he has a case of utmost importance and that he _will_ receive their assistance with it or the consequences will be dire.

Three months have passed since John began his experiment in touching, and he’s found it particularly effective in calming Sherlock down when he’s worked up and can’t focus. It seems like the best plan of action to move beside him and get his attention, first by a hand on his arm, shaken off, then the slide of his left hand along his neck, underneath the curls around his nape, to physically direct his eyes and attention to John’s face. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks coolly. This part of John’s plan has worked at least; he has Sherlock’s eyes fixed on his own, but he’s strung tight, a bow string about to break, rather than relaxed.

“ _Trying_ to get you calmed down enough to focus,” John says with exasperation. “Doing something for Mycroft isn’t the end of the world.”

“I don’t mean what are you doing right now. I’m not a fool; I know you’ve decided that this—,” he jerks away from John’s touch, “is some way to keep me under control, but what I want to know is why you’re doing it.”

John’s face falls and he steps back away from Sherlock, hands balled into fists by his side. “It’s not—” he swallows against the tightness constricting his throat. “It’s not like that. I’m not trying to ... to _control_ you or anything. Christ, I’d have to be mad to do something like that.”

“Mycroft mentioned that he’s noticed it—the way you touch me now,” Sherlock says cautiously.

John frowns because he had been in the room the entire time and heard no conversation of the sort, though he knows by now that those two rarely have to rely on mere words like humans, and how does Mycroft even know in the first place? He hasn’t been that indiscrete. “And? I didn’t think it bothered you.”

“It doesn’t, but I won’t have you using it to manipulate me.”

“Manipulate you?” John echoes with disbelief. “I’m sorry, how exactly is that manipulating you?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes but keeps his voice calm. “Because you know how I feel, and you keep doing it even though—”

“How you feel?” John interrupts. “How you feel about what?”

“How I feel about you, obviously. And I know you don’t feel the same, but that doesn’t stop you from touching me and, well, I won’t stop you—”

“Wait, wait, how you feel about me?” John is lost. “I think that I’m missing a very big part of this conversation.”

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaims and whirls away from John, hands clasped in front of his face. He stares into middle distance for a moment before turning back around and focusing on John again. “I assumed that you knew. I mean, it is fairly obvious. But then there are a lot of things that I find obvious, that practically everyone else does, and you don’t.”

“Ta,” John says dryly. “Care to fill me in on what you mean since I’m apparently a bit thick?”

“I have feelings for you, John. Romantic ones, I suppose, if you have to label them that way.”

John’s jaw drops. “I—I didn’t think you … did that.”

Sherlock closes the space between them and takes John’s face in his hands. “I don’t usually. You’re an exception. And I assumed that you knew.”

“And … and I’ve been touching you and you thought that I knew that … you had feelings for me.” The implications dawn on John and he squeezes his eyes shut in shame. “Fuck, no wonder you never told me to knock it off.”

“The way that you put your hands on me sometimes—it’s a bit like you do, used to do, with your girlfriends, isn’t it? If anyone saw it, they might think you were being rather possessive. Mycroft did, in fact.”

“Fuck,” John says again. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to manipulate you or whatever other horrible things he has you thinking. I didn’t _know_.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock lets go of him and steps back. “I know that now. But you can see how I might have been confused.”

John shakes his head. “No, I actually can’t see that. Not sure how you’d think I’d do something like that to you. You’re an idiot. You’re a complete fucking idiot and all you had to do was tell me.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John surges forwards, wraps his left palm around the back of Sherlock’s neck again, and pulls him into a kiss, swallowing his words.

\---

“Fuck,” Sherlock whispers breathlessly. John’s hands are smaller than his own, but they’re strong, capable. Rough in different ways—there’s a callus on his trigger finger, on the right hand that he shoots with in spite of his dominant left; he washes them often at the surgery and doesn’t bother to moisturize, so the skin is dry and sometimes cracks. Sherlock has an artist’s hands: long, thin fingers with hardened tips from hours on the violin; steady enough to do delicate lab work himself; strong enough to get him out of tricky situations. John’s fingers are shorter. Wider. Blunt. There are three of them pressing into him now, and Sherlock is falling apart.

“D’you think you’re ready, then?” John asks. He has Sherlock on his back in his bed—it was closer than going up the stairs to John’s—with one hand splayed across his stomach and the other working in and out of him methodically. He has to bite his lip to maintain some semblance of control as he watches Sherlock writhe under his touch.

“Yes. _Please_.”

John nods, withdraws his fingers and huffs a breathless laugh at Sherlock’s noise of disappointment. “I’m not done with you, I promise. Over,” he says, and pats his hip when he doesn’t bother to move.

“I’m boneless,” Sherlock complains as he finally rolls to his side, then onto his stomach. “It’s your fault. My limbs no longer work.”

“We could stop, if you want,” John says, as though it’s a reasonable suggestion. His hand on his cock, slicking it with the lube that Sherlock had in his bedside drawer for unexplained reasons, contradicts his words.

Sherlock grumbles a disagreement and pulls himself up to his knees. “No, we cannot. Now if you would hurry up.”

They both grin. John puts a steadying hand on Sherlock’s hip and presses into him slowly. “Fuck,” he curses with shuddering breath at the gradual slide of it. “Brace your hands against something.”

Sherlock fists his hands in the pillows and pushes back until John’s hips are flush against him. “C’mon,” he pants. “You won’t break me.”

“I know.” He slides back out slowly, not all the way, before pushing back in with a sharper snap of his hips. His efforts are rewarded with a moan. Satisfied that Sherlock is okay, he begins to move faster, to fuck him in earnest. His hands slide over Sherlock’s back and up to his shoulders, down around his hips, skimming over as much skin as he can reach.

“It’s not—it’s not close enough. I need you to hold me. I need—,” Sherlock gasps out.

“Here,” John says, and he leans forward to press his chest against Sherlock’s back. Their height difference isn’t conducive to the position, so he wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist to keep them together. “Move with me,” he tells him, mouth brushing over the smooth skin along his spine. After Sherlock nods his understanding, John shifts his weight back on his heels, bending back his legs, and keeps Sherlock pressed against his chest with his arm as he goes. They move into a kneeling position, Sherlock’s thighs splayed over John’s.

“Yes,” Sherlock says with shaky breath. “That, _yes._ ” The shift in their position changes the angle of John’s movement inside him and he groans at the difference.

“Christ.” John rocks his hips up slowly and slides his left hand to rest on Sherlock’s stomach, feeling the muscles tremble under his fingers. His right arm goes around his chest, holding him close so that the damp skin of John’s chest slides smoothly against Sherlock’s back as their hips find a rhythm together. His mouth meets Sherlock’s neck and he licks a small circle against it. “Better?”

“Fucking perfect,” Sherlock practically growls, and John smiles against his skin.

“Should have known you’d get a filthy mouth when you get fucked.”

“Then why don’t you shut up and _do it_ ,” he snaps back, and moans when John rises to the challenge. His head falls back onto John’s left shoulder, exposing the long line of his throat.

John slides his hand up from Sherlock’s chest and onto his throat, stroking along his skin. “God, I can’t keep my hands off you,” he whispers in awe, and Sherlock’s response is to whimper because for once in his life he’s not sure that he’s capable of forming words. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” His fingers make their way over Sherlock’s chin and find his lips, ghosting touches over his open, panting mouth. “Next time I’ll spend more time with your mouth,” John promises. “I’ve thought about it so much; wanked off so many times thinking about slipping between your lips.”

Sherlock lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Yes, next time.” John’s fingers are still by his mouth and he sweeps his tongue out to draw them in, closes his lips around them and sucks.

“ _Christ_ ,” John pants again. The hand on Sherlock’s stomach clenches and he slides it down to grasp his cock and slide a few slick strokes over the head.

“No,” Sherlock gasps around his fingers. “It’s too much if you do that. I can come like this.” He starts sucking again, utterly focused.

John nods and moves his hand away, first over Sherlock’s thighs to feel the strain of his muscles as they rock together in syncopated rhythm, then back up to his abdomen and onto his chest, where a brush of the thumb across Sherlock’s nipples brings out a deep groan. He ends up with his arm wrapped snugly around Sherlock’s chest again, keeping him upright as he starts to come undone.

It’s John who comes first, burying his face into the side of Sherlock’s neck and repeating “mine, mine, _mine_ ” in time with the canting of his hips. The feeling of John pulsing inside him makes him growl in frustration, then relief as John’s last few frantic thrusts are enough to make him come as well, spilling out onto his stomach, sliding down over their thighs.

\---

No one mentions the new development, though they surely all notice. There’s no more pretense of getting his attention at a crime scene—John’s possessive touches are a constant, when circumstances allow. A hand slid up under his coat, between his jacket and his shirt to press at the small of his back while they stand around waiting for information. Fingers entwined as they walk away leisurely, heading for a post-case dinner. Touches at the back of the neck to bring a taller mouth down for a kiss and let everyone know that this man who builds up careful walls of impenetrability will always be his, will always let him in.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the poem "To Love is Not to Possess" by James Kavanaugh, because have I mentioned I am terrible at naming things? It's a pretty common wedding reading so it's sunk in my head from years of friends getting married.


End file.
